


Alok

by dovahgriin



Series: Daniik Miraad [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Female Protagonist, Female-Centric, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Male-Female Friendship, Novelization, POV Third Person Limited, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-10 15:16:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15294285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dovahgriin/pseuds/dovahgriin
Summary: Iora Allegra Septima is a mortal with the soul of a Dovah. Known as Dragonborn to those who live in the realms of Man and Mer, she is a doom-driven hero destined to face Alduin, first-born of Akatosh, in battle.She never asked for this.





	1. Unbound I

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Certain as Death and Taxes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10312154) by [Morgenleoht](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgenleoht/pseuds/Morgenleoht). 
  * Inspired by [Brotherhood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3282332) by [MinaGlasse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinaGlasse/pseuds/MinaGlasse). 



> This is also published on FF.net under dovahgriin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta’d by the lovely ollies-outies on tumblr<3 (she’s the best, you should follow her blog)

Iora wakes with the rain. It drips down her face, soaking her hair and her clothes. Her hands are bound behind her back, and there is a filthy rag stuffed into her mouth. It tastes of blood and earth. She spits it out, and the gag she makes has the other occupants of the cart turning towards her.

“You’re finally awake,” the man across from her says. “You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked straight into that ambush, just like us.”

“Who are you?” Her mouth tastes like death.

“I am Ralof of Riverwood. And who are you, Breton?”

“Iora Allegra.” She sees no reason to lie to this man, but she also does not wish to explain her extensive family history, either.

“Well met, Iora Allegra.”

She nods but otherwise does not respond, instead opting to look at her surroundings. The cart is rickety and uncomfortable, splinters digging into Iora’s thighs. A man in the armor of the Imperial Legion sits on the driver’s bench, eyes on the road ahead. Another two Imperial soldiers ride massive destriers on either side of the cart, guarding its occupants.

Iora looks at the man beside her. He is huge, easily two heads taller than her, with shoulders like a bear. The bearskin cloak only adds to this impression. He, like she was, is gagged. The third man, a dirty, dark-haired Plainsman says something, and Ralof snaps at him. The Reacher pales considerably.

“Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? But, if they’ve captured you… _Oh gods._ Where are they taking us?”

Ralof shakes his head. “I don’t know where we’re going, but Sovngarde awaits.”

The Plainsman thief (for he is a thief — he openly admits to stealing a horse) panics and puts his head between his knees, arms wrapped around his middle. Underneath the sounds of the cart, horses and soldiers, Iora can barely make out the sound of him praying.

“Shut up back there,” the Imperial driver calls back to them; Ralof rolls his eyes. The prisoners remain silent for the remaining duration of the cart ride.

Ralof speaks again as they pass beneath the bridge-gate of a Nordic town. He names the town as _Helgen,_ mentioning that he used to court a girl that once lived there. A chill wind descends from the peaks of the Jerall Mountains, sending shivers down Iora’s spine. Ralof notices and smirks.

“Not used to the cold, eh? You Bretons have thinner blood than us Nords.”

“I think they dosed me with a magical suppressant — I would be able to warm myself, otherwise,” Iora replies sharply, teeth chattering.

“You’re a mage, then? What’re you doing in Skyrim, of all places?”

“I was sent here to scope out potential sites of great magical power by the Synod, and to possibly join the College of Winterhold. Now, though, I’m thinking that no amount of coin or knowledge is worth being in this sun-forsaken country.” She pauses. “No offense intended.”

The blonde Nord snorts. “None taken. I’d recommend getting out of the country as soon as possible,” he nods towards the headsman’s block before the main tower, “but I think that escaping a war is the least of your worries.”

Iora goes hot, then cold, then hot again. _I am being driven to my death._ Something inside her rails at that thought, screaming for _fire, ice, lightning,_ for the destructive forces of nature to come to her aid. She drops off of the back of the wagon, stands in a line before a handsome Nordic legionnaire and his commanding officer.

No help comes.

“Who are you?” The legionnaire looks her up and down with a raised brow. Iora scowls at the inspection.

Raising her chin, she replies in a haughty tone, “I am Iora Allegra of House Telvanni. Release me now and you will be rewarded handsomely.” The last sentence is a bit of a fib, but what the Nord does not know will not harm him. At least, that is what Iora tells herself. But she is no fool. As the cart had rolled into Helgen, she herself had seen the Thalmor ambassador. Revealing her maternal ancestry now is akin to signing her own death warrant in the eyes of both the Empire and the Dominion. The Nord looks to his superior for guidance.

“Captain, what should we do? If she speaks the truth…” The Imperial woman casts a disdainful glance at the legionnaire and the prisoner.

“Same as the rest. Send her to the block.” A wave of fear washes over Iora. The Nordic legionnaire, to his credit, looks remorseful.

“I am sorry. We will make sure your remains are returned to your family. Follow the captain, prisoner.” Iora’s scowl deepens, but any move other than that instructed will be interpreted as an attack. The horse thief, it seems, does not appreciate this fact and sprints towards the north-facing gate.

He is shot down on order of the captain. The heavily armored woman then turns to Iora, who did not move to join the Stormcloaks. Her lip curls.

“Move it, half-breed. You cannot delay the inevitable.” Iora stumbles when the Imperial pushes her between the shoulderblades. A low, rumbling sound echoes from over the mountains. The legionnaire freezes midstep.

“What was that?”

General Tullius, in his thick Bruma brogue, dismisses the Nord. “It is nothing. Carry on.” A priestess of Arkay begins to speak. A Stormcloak soldier steps forward, a sneer on his face.

“Enough! It seems we are braver than any of you milk-drinkers. I will face my death like a true Nord.” He strides forward and kneels before the axeman. His neck rests on the bloodstained block. “My ancestors are smiling on me, Imperials. Can you say the same?” The man’s eyes are locked onto the Nordic legionnaire, who goes pale and looks away.

The axeman’s blade whistles through the air. Blood spurts from the stump left, and the corpse’s head falls neatly into a red-stained basket.

The Imperial captain points at Iora, “Next, the Breton!”

The rumble can be heard again, this time much, much closer. Iora hesitates, palms slick with sweat. The legionnaire once again wonders what the source of the sound was. Ralof prods Iora in the back.

“Come on now. I’m right behind you.”

She goes.

She does not see the monster swooping out of the mountains, does not see the terrible eyes and fangs. She does, however, see the Imperial soldiers go deathly pale and hear the much-lauded General Tullius draw his blade and call for archers and battlemages. A roar unlike any Iora has heard before sets the ground shaking, fire falling from the sky and stones from the main tower falling loose from the mortar.

Another roar, and her vision goes black. She comes to with Ralof’s arm around her waist and Ulfric Stormcloak ushering them inside a yet-standing tower. Just as the Jarl of Windhelm shuts the heavy wood door — _wood does nothing to protect against fire, you fools,_ Iora shrills in her head — a flaming rock crashes into the earth, shaking the ground beneath their feet and sending the Breton woman tumbling out of Ralof’s grasp. Her breath leaves her chest in a soft _oouf._

Iora blinks, tears forming in her silvery-blue eyes against the smoke. Ulfric shouts something, voice tinged with authority and edged in panic. Ralof hoists Iora up.

“... an you walk?” Her ears are ringing still. She nods. Together, they limp up the stone stairs of the tower. The air rumbles, and the stone wall Iora uses as an extra support bursts open, sending a Stormcloak soldier tumbling back down the stairs. In the years to come, she will claim to have been able to hear the man’s neck snap in two as he fell, but if that is not true, there will be none alive to deny her words.

An enormous, scaly black snout can be seen through the new opening. Ralof stumbles back, his fist wrapped in Iora’s tunic as he yanks her back, yelling. Iora can barely hear him. She _yearns_ to get closer, and she pulls against Ralof’s grip. His fingers slip, but that brief moment is all she needs to wrench herself out of his grip; likewise, it is all the beast needs to beat its wings and soar into the sky, roaring.

Tears roll down her face, and Iora lets out a despairing wail. Something within her _mourns_ being unable to fly with the creature. _A dragon,_ she realizes deep within her head. _That is a dragon, like in the legends and prophecies._ Something inside her chest resonates with that knowledge.

She blinks back to the present when someone shakes her. It is Ralof. He says something, then points out of the dragon-made hole at the burning thatch of a house. Through the flames, Iora can see an attic floor. _Jump,_ Ralof mouths at her. Without thinking, Iora jumps.

She crashes to the floor, which miraculously holds. Flames singe her hair, sending it curling into a frizzy mess by her cheeks. The fire roars and leaps the hole her descent created in the roof. The Stormcloaks do not follow. Iora shudders and picks herself up off of the floor. Her palms sting where splinters dig into the tender skin.

She stumbles across the floor and finds a hole in the floor where a support beam had collapsed earlier. Sparks burn tiny holes into her clothes. Her feet _burn_ when she lands in a pile of smoking embers. Iora feels tears roll down her cheeks, leaving streaks in the soot. An Imperial soldier — the one from before, the Nord — grabs her arm and pulls her back from the main street. A second later, flames hotter than anything she’s ever felt before fly down the avenue. _He saved my life._

The legionnaire confers with an older man, who has his hand on the shoulder of a filthy young boy. The child looks to be, at most, eight or nine years old. The legionnaire nods once at the man, and turns back to Iora.

“Stay close to me if you want to live,” he says. Iora follows him quietly, still not quite believing what she’s seeing, even as an archer is engulfed in flames right in front of her. The woman dies screaming. The scent of flesh burning has Iora’s mouth watering and bile rising bitter in her throat.

The legionnaire follows through on his promise, pushing Iora to the side when the dragon -- _a dragon!_ \-- lands on the wall above them and roasts a battlemage across the road. He says something about staying close to the walls, and Iora nods, but truly, her eyes are on the dragon, the first seen in a thousand years. She wants to stay and watch the beast, but the legionnaire tugs her away, towards the keep.

Her surprise is palpable when Ralof appears. Ulfric is not with him, and Iora wonders where he has gone. The two Nords stare each other down. Iora looks between them. She loudly clears her throat. The sound seems to break the two men out of whatever pissing contest they were locked in, and Ralof shakes his head and spits on the ground at the legionnaire’s feet. The Nord leading Iora tugs her into the keep after him. He shuts the heavy wooden door behind her.

Iora slumps against the wall. She is exhausted. Nothing could have prepared her for this, and she voices as much, wry amusement coloring her words. The legionnaire introduces himself as Quaestor Hadvar Erikssen of Riverwood and offers to cut Iora’s bonds. She gratefully accepts his help, massaging her wrists in places where the rope had rubbed them raw. Hadvar hisses in sympathy when he sees the wounds, muttering unflattering things under his breath about the person who had tied them.

“I am sorry, but I do not have any poultices on me. There hopefully will be some farther in the keep.”

Iora shrugs. “It is fine. As soon as the magicka suppressant wears off, I will be able to heal them myself.”

“You’re a mage?”

The young woman snorts in a very unladylike manner. “I am a Breton _and_ the daughter of a Telvanni wizard, Quaestor. My very _blood_ is chock-full of magic.” She pauses, a thought striking her. “Is my being a mage going to be an issue for you, Quaestor?”

Hadvar shakes his head. “No. So long as you keep your spells aimed _away_ from my head, it should not be a problem.”

Iora feels the barest dregs of magicka trickle back into herself as the magicka poison fades away. Her hands glow weakly, and the warmth of restoration magic spreads over her wrists. Hadvar watches in fascination. When Iora sends a questioning look his way, he flushes.

“I was never any good at magic,” he says in response. “But it always fascinated me, to the chagrin of my parents.”

Iora nods thoughtfully in agreement. “You Nords do not have the strongest affinity for the arcane. But it does speak well of you, that you are willing to work with magic-users, rather than shun them like so many of your countrymen do.”

They scrounge around the room, dropping coins into pockets and — in Iora’s case — stripping out of filthy clothes and donning the clean leathers of the Imperial Legion. Hadvar looks away as she dresses, then helps her with the many straps and buttons on the uniform. He laughs when she wonders out loud _why_ there are so many buttons. After she is properly outfitted, Iora ties her singed clothes into a bundle and tucks it beneath her arm. Hadvar hands her an iron sword, heavier than she’s used to.

“What am I meant to do with this?”

“Well, swing it, for one. Use it to defend yourself, maybe. Magicka is not an unending fountain of power, if I remember correctly.” Hadvar’s tone is drier than the deserts of Elsweyr. Iora rolls her eyes and hands the sword back to him.

“I do not need a corporeal weapon,” she informs the Nord tartly. Her hands go out to her sides and glow a deep purple. Out of thin air — or what seems to be thin air to the quaestor — twin curved daggers appear in the Breton’s hands. They glow with an otherworldly light, humming softly. Hadvar moves back a step, eyes on the Oblivion-summoned blades.

“You are a conjurer, then?”

Iora’s expression is bland as she replies, “Amongst other things.” She pauses. “I suppose you could call me a jack of all trades, master of none. Do you have that saying in Skyrim?”

Hadvar nods in acknowledgement, but now keeps a fair distance between himself and the Breton sorcerer. Iora rolls her eyes, but does not begrudge him his reaction. Even in more tolerant circles, conjuring is looked down upon as a… less savory school of magic, mostly due to the  — somewhat unreasonable, in Iora’s humble opinion — stigma against necromancy. She follows him down the hall.


	2. Unbound II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta’d by @ollies-outies on tumblr <3

The first group of Nords that Iora and Hadvar run into pose little threat to the two. While Hadvar keeps their attention, Iora strafes to the right, cloaked in shadows. She gets close to the elder of the two soldiers facing off against Hadvar, a Plainswoman with lines etched into her skin and a tan from working the fields of Whiterun, and neatly slices through the woman’s jugular. Blood runs in rivulets down Iora’s arm where she holds the woman still. The Breton murmurs a quiet apology to the Stormcloak as she lowers her to the ground, then turns a half-circle and vomits into a basket as Hadvar decapitates the other Stormcloak.

Calloused hands hold Iora’s auburn hair back as she gags once more. Her skin is clammy, sweat breaking out along her hairline.

“Easy now,” the legionnaire soothes. “That was your first time killing, wasn’t it?”

Iora shakes her head, then nods. “Yes, and no. I’ve dealt with undead and beasts, but never a cognizant human being.”

“It gets easier,” Hadvar says. “Though whether or not that is a good thing, I do not know.”

“I figured as much.” She stands on wobbly legs, leaning briefly on Hadvar as she wipes her mouth. He steadies her, then releases his hold on her, stepping back. Iora nods her thanks.

They continue quietly on until Hadvar hauls her out of the way of the collapsing roof.

“Watch the stonework, Iora,” Hadvar admonishes. “Whatever that dragon is doing outside is not doing the keep’s structure any favors.” As if in agreement, dust sifts down onto their heads, making Iora sneeze violently.

“Alright, I get it. We should keep moving.”

Together, they fight off two more Stormcloaks in a room branching off the main hallway. Hadvar finds a couple of unbroken bottles of healing potion on the corpses. A door from it leads down into the bowels of the keep, and Hadvar stops short of the archway into what turns out to be a dungeon.

“The torture room. Gods, I hate this.”

“Then why do you go along with it?”

“What else am I to do? Speak up and get discharged in return?” Hadvar’s hand grips the pommel of his blade tightly, but he makes no move to draw it.  
“Yes,” Iora stomps her foot, magic flaring up around her.” That is _exactly_ what you are supposed to do! By not speaking up, you are condoning this behavior and perpetuating it. If you feel it is wrong, then _say something,_ you — !” She turns slightly and punches the wall, her growl of frustration morphing into a yelp of pain.

Hadvar frowns, moving towards her. “Are you alright?”

Iora’s reply is lost in a hiss of pain. “No. I think I fractured something.” She cradles her fist to her chest, mouth downturned. “Ouch.”

“Can you heal it?”

“I’m good, but I’m not _that_ good, Quaestor.” Iora sighs and looks at Hadvar with a rueful grin. “I’m afraid I will not be much help if we encounter any more adversaries.”

“You _could_ use some work on your form. Weren’t you taught how to defend yourself without magic?”

“With a blade, yes. Not without one.” She sighs, and gestures towards the exit of the hallway. “Shall we continue on? I’d like to get my hand fixed as soon as I can.”

Hadvar nods, and leads her into the dungeon. Her breath catches in her throat. Hadvar had not been lying when he had called it a torture chamber.

It is not a very large room, but that does not matter when the whole of it reeks with despair. A rack stands in the corner closest to where the two enter the room, and on it lays the corpse of a Nordic woman, the skin on her chest peeled back. She had been flayed (alive, by the contorted expression on the corpse’s face), and the sight is horrific. Portions of its flesh are blackened by poison and flames. Hadvar goes very pale, and Iora closes her eyes, willing back her nausea.

“Oh,” she says, voice very small in the quiet of the room. “I _really_ regret coming to Skyrim.”

“Can you burn the body?” A voice comes from the far corner of the room, and Iora sends up a magelight in response. She is surprised to see Ralof, surrounded by the bodies of both Imperial and Stormcloak soldiers. He has one hand pressed against his belly, red staining his armor.

“I… yes.” Hadvar does not move to stop her as she sets the body alight within a barrier, letting the corpse burn hotter than it typically might if she were just casting a fire spell at it. The three of them watch the flames rage and flicker and die to a few small embers before Iora turns to Hadvar, hand extended. “Give me a healing potion.”

He hesitates, avoiding her eyes, and Iora _tsks_ at him. “I cannot aid and abet an enemy of the Empire,” is the excuse he gives. The Breton woman rolls her eyes.

“Then give _me_ the potion, Quaestor. Once it leaves your possession, you have no control over how it is used.” When the Nord _still_ hesitates, Iora takes the matter into her own hands by slipping slender fingers into the pouch at his waist and fishing out a vial of red liquid. She pops the cork with her nail and kneels beside Ralof, holding the vial to his mouth. The Stormcloak greedily drinks the potion, sighing in relief as the healing magic does its work on his injury. He looks up at her, pale eyes hazy with lingering pain.

“Thank you, Iora Allegra,” he says softly. She shrugs.

“It is what anyone _should_ do,” Iora mutters, pushing herself to her feet and dusting off her knees. She holds her undamaged hand out to the warrior. He looks between she and Hadvar skeptically and does not take it. “Will you come with us? I’m injured, and I would really prefer to not die today, by dragon _or_ fanatics from either side of this civil war.”

Hadvar levels a cool look at Ralof. Iora’s muscles tense as she watches the two men. She would not be surprised in the least if they began to fight, but she prayed that would not be the case. Both have helped her thus far and seem fairly decent, if one ignored the obvious rift resulting from the civil war.

After what seems like hours, the two Nords nod stiffly to each other.

“I will join you,” Ralof announces quietly, looking to Iora in the gloomy light of the dungeon. “I owe you a life-debt, and we Nords do not forget that sort of thing easily. But know this — as soon as we leave this place, I _will_ need to return to Windhelm. This war is bigger than any other issue that may appear. Skyrim deserves to be free.”

Iora nods slowly. “Very well, Ralof of Riverwood. I accept your conditions.” She looks to Hadvar, who stands silent at her side, lips pressed tightly together in displeasure. “Do not kill him,” she requests.

His eyes are cold when he glances down at her. “I will not.” Iora brightens at his words.

“Excellent! Now, we should probably get a move in. There is a breeze coming from that hall,” she gestures vaguely behind herself. Hadvar pulls Ralof to his feet. The Stormcloak grabs a steel warhammer from the ground, testing its weight in his hands before nodding once to himself.

“You lead, Rolfssen,” Hadvar growls at Ralof. The blonde shrugs and sends Iora a grin before making his way into the branching hall. Iora follows him after a nudge from Hadvar. Hadvar brings up the rear of their little party, ears open for any dangers that may come up from behind.

The keep creaks above them, sending more dust down onto their heads. Iora sneezes again, rubbing her nose. Ralof snorts out a laugh. The Breton sticks her tongue out at his back. Hadvar rolls his eyes.

The next room they come into is a hollowed-out cavern, all rough stone and stalactites on the roof and man-made walkways below. A stream bubbles through the center of the room, destination through a wrought-iron grate unknown. The room is empty; not of corpses, but of the living. Several bodies lay where they had fallen, blood pooling beneath them as the trio picks their way through the carnage. Ralof waves them on as he walks across a rickety wooden bridge. Iora eyes it warily.

“That does not look stable.”

“Come on, now,” Ralof cajoles, halfway cross already. “It’s not that bad. See?” He jumps one time, twice, causing the bridge to bend underneath the strain. Sending a cocky smirk Iora’s way, Ralof bounces once more and —

The bridge collapses beneath him.

An alarmed shout leaves Hadvar. Iora scrambles to the edge of the drop. Thankfully, it is not a large one. Ralof sits at the bottom, rubbing his lower back.

“Dibella’s _fucking_ tits, that was painful,” he grumbles. Iora bites back a smile. If he is well enough to talk, the injury cannot be more than a bruise in her experience, which is a good thing. Iora, after all, is no great healer.

“I _told_ you the bridge didn’t look stable,” she calls down to him. He makes a rude gesture with his fingers, startling a laugh out of the Breton mage. “Hold on, Ralof of Riverwood. I know a spell that can ease your pain.”

“No, no thank you. The injury is not that bad,” he waves off her offer. She frowns a little, brows bunching together, but the expression is gone before Ralof can spot it.

“At least let me help you up, serah.” Hadvar helps lower her into the hole and then jumps down after her, the leather of his boots making next to no sound. Iora again holds her hand out to the Nord, and this time he gratefully takes it.

“Thanks,” he says, a small smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“It is nothing.” Iora toes the broken planks, peering at them in the dim light. “See, I was right. The boards are rotted through in the center.” She points out the decaying areas on the wood.

“Alright, no more jumping, _Ma._ I get it.”

“I’m not _nearly_ old enough to be your mother, son of Skyrim.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t act like her, though.”

“... Whatever.”

Hadvar ushers them out of the tunnel, the three of them sloshing through a tiny stream running through the natural cavern. Their footsteps echo in the cave, and every stone that they disturb sounds like a landslide.

“Well, if there is something ahead, we’ve surely made our presence known to it,” Iora grumbles.

“Ah, don’t be such a milk-drinker. Anything we come across, Hadvar and I can handle.”

“I happen to hate drinking milk, Nord.”

“What? But don’t you like cheese?”

“I said I hate drinking it, not —“ Iora’s retort is cut off when Hadvar abruptly stops them.

“Shh! See those webs? There’s frostbite spiders around here.” He motions to the walls and ceiling of the cave. White, sticky web covers most of it, and sways gently in a gentle breeze. Iora shivers. Spiders were never her favorite creature in Morrowind, and _those_ were not the giant ones they apparently have in Skyrim.

“Do we sneak? Or…?” Iora’s voice trails off as Hadvar takes point, shield up.

“Stay behind me. I’ll keep the worst of it off of you, and feel free to sling fire at the beasts.”

“Just don’t hit me, would you?” Ralof quips beside her.

“I have better aim than you give me credit fo--” Iora stops speaking with a squeal as the most enormous spider that she has ever seen drops down from a hole in the ceiling. She calls fire to her hands without thinking about it and sets the creature alight. It hisses at her and spits blue-green venom at her face. Iora reaches to cover her face but, luckily for her, the poison never reaches its mark, instead splattering across Hadvar’s iron shield.

“Thanks,” she whispers as Ralof makes quick work of the spider with his warhammer. Hadvar glances at her over his shoulder.

“You’re welcome.”

Thankfully, the only other spiders they encounter are small enough that a well-placed stomp crushes their skulls. Ralof and Hadvar do most of the squishing, leaving Iora free to inspect the room. Egg sacs hang from the ceiling and rest against the walls, and Iora remembers her father mentioning that spider eggs are good for brewing poisons that inhibit an enemy’s magicka and damage their stamina. So, she does the only natural thing to do — she braces herself and sticks her hand into the egg sac nearest to her with a _squelch._ The sticky feeling of web around her fingers sets her hair on end, but Iora manages to fish out a handful of intact eggs. Pleased with herself, Iora slips the eggs into her makeshift bag and shoulders it once more.

Ralof saw what she had done, and he looks a bit on the green side. “How could you _do_ that?”

“The same way _you_ have no trouble at all squishing the things that come out of them,” Iora says softly as she wipes her hand on her borrowed armor. “Everyone has their own strengths. Mine just so happens to be sticking my hands where they are not wanted.”

Ralof laughs at that but leaves her be, taking point as the ragtag group proceeds farther into the belly of the caves beneath Helgen. They all take much more care watching where they step now, ears straining for any sound that might come from a creature other than themselves. There is nothing, aside from the steady flow of water in a divot in the uneven floor.

“Dead end,” Ralof grunts, taking a sharp turn to the right. Iora follows close on his heels, which turns out to not be such a fantastic idea when Ralof stops abruptly, knocking Iora onto her rear with a soft _oomph._ Ralof turns to give her an incredulous look, to which she responds with an eye-roll.

“There is a bear, just ahead,” he whispers. Hadvar peers into the gloom behind Ralof and confirms it.

“What do you think we should do, Iora Allegra?” Ralof catches the Breton’s eyes with his own. Iora frowns.

“Why are you asking me? I do not know anything about Skyrim’s fauna. You _both_ are natives, and know what to expect.” She steadily first looks at Ralof, then at Hadvar. “So, what do the two of _you_ suggest?”

“I say we sneak by it,” Hadvar says softly, hand idly tracing a smattering of scars on his arm. Looking closer, Iora sees that they are claw marks. “Bears in Skyrim are grumpy at best, and downright invincible at worst. Not that they can’t be defeated in battle, but…” He trails off, looking anywhere but the faces of his companions.

“Then we sneak by. I’m by no means able to properly cast with just one arm working,” Iora decides, “And I can’t cast _pacify_ yet. My illusion spells need work.”

As they begin to sneak, Iora spots a bottle in an overturned cart and snags it. The label has her smiling giddily. _Black-Briar Reserve._ She tucks her treasure beneath her arm and brings up the rear after Hadvar. She does not really believe bears can be all _that_ terrible, but she is quite content to follow behind the Nordic men.

They pass the bear with little issue.

“I can see sunlight ahead!” Ralof calls, picking up his pace. Hadvar follows suit, glancing back to Iora. She stands upright. There is a breeze, bringing with it fresh air and the scent of dust after rain.

A bellow sounds behind her. The smile falls from her face. The bear has awoken, and it is not happy to see Iora standing in plain sight. The bear roars again. Iora screams in response, tripping backwards as she tries to find higher ground. Hadvar shouts the famed (and feared) battlecry of the Nords and rushes the bear from the side. His shield smashes into its ribs with an audible _crack._

The bear stumbles and turns to face the warrior with a roar. Hadvar circles, forcing the bear to expose its back to Iora (and, subsequently, Ralof). The blonde Stormcloak moves between the bear and the mage, warhammer at the ready. He waits, knees bent, as Hadvar faces off against the beast. The bear snarls a challenge as it rises up on its hind legs, revealing its true height. Hadvar has to tilt his head back to look the bear in the face. Ralof’s muscles tense, hinting at his plan before he leaps onto the bear’s back as it bares down onto the legionnaire, the pointed end of his warhammer driving into the back of the beast’s neck.

The bear bellows in pain, falling to its knees. Ralof rolls to his feet. Hadvar struggles underneath the weight of the bear, pushing it away with his shield before performing an elegant whirl-and-stab, driving his steel sword through the bear’s skull. The animal makes a surprised sound, like it could not believe that it was dead, and then it does finally die. Hadvar slumps against a stalagmite and Ralof whoops.

“Now _that_ was a fight, Erikssen! I haven’t had my blood pumping like that in a long time.” He bounces on the balls of his feet as a grin spreads across his face.

“A good fight,” Hadvar says faintly. “Right.”

Iora clambers down from the rock shelf that she’d ensconced herself on at the beginning of the fight. She made a beeline for Hadvar, a minor healing spell glowing golden in her uninjured hand. He accepts her help with a small smile but he still looks far too pale in Iora’s opinion, so she forces him to drink a healing potion. At the very least, it brings some color back into his cheeks so Iora counts it as a victory.

“Ralof, help Hadvar up,” Iora orders, already moving to examine the bear’s corpse. She summons one of her Oblivion blades and neatly slices the claws off and pops the bear’s eyes out of its sockets. When Ralof gives her a strange look, she just shrugs, “What? They’re very useful alchemy ingredients. I have to have a way to make money since the Synod likely thinks I’m dead.”

“That is… a very practical mindset,” Ralof says, one eyebrow raised. Iora practically glows at his words.

“Thank you, serah.” The blonde Nord looks slightly taken aback at this, but shakes it off with a shrug as he helps Hadvar stand upright. Iora moves to Hadvar’s other side, hovering. The quaestor waves her off.

“By the Eight, woman, Ralof was right. You _do_ hover like a mother hen.” A smile plays on his lips belying his sharp words, but Iora still feels stung. Her mouth tightens into the falsest smile she has ever given anyone and she falls into step behind the two men, making sure that nothing trips up the legionnaire.


	3. Before the Storm I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta’d as of 27/7/2018

They exit the cave, eyes on the sky. The dragon is nowhere in sight.

“Must’ve flown off,” Ralof remarks. Hadvar makes a noise of agreement. Iora nods, even though they cannot see it, and follows them as they make their way down the path to the road. “That road down there leads to Riverwood, where Hadvar and I grew up together,” the blonde tells Iora, gesturing to a glorified footpath down the hill. “My sister lives there, as does his uncle. He can rest there before leaving for Solitude.”

“Will you be coming with us?” Hadvar turns his head to look at Iora. She shrugs.

“Perhaps. I would like to get to a city as soon as possible to find a proper healer, though,” she replies quietly. Ralof sends her a questioning look and she explains that she believed she had fractured her hand when punching a wall in the keep. He laughs loudly.

“You — You punched a _wall,_ lass? Why in Talos’ name would you do that?”

“I lost control of my temper, believe it or not, son of Skyrim. It was either that, or electrocute _this_ one over here,” she jerks her head towards Hadvar. The man in question gives her a wry look.

“Well, I can understand _that,_ at least. He usually needs a few kicks to the head before he makes any sort of decision. Or, at least, he used to. Maybe time has softened his stubborn skull.”

They reach the road, and Hadvar turns to Iora fully, shrugging out of Ralof’s grip. “The fork in the road here will either lead you to Falkreath,” he points towards the south-east, “or Whiterun,” he gestures in a north-west direction. “Riverwood is on the way to Whiterun, so Ralof and I could at least accompany you that far. There’s a temple dedicated to Kynareth in the center of Whiterun, headed by a healer-priestess, so I’d recommend going there, rather than Falkreath. All that’s there is an alchemist.”

“... What kind of a city doesn’t have a healer?” Iora is astounded at the apparent deficiency. In Morrowind, any city worthy of being called a city has at least _one_ qualified healer in residence.

“Falkreath is more of a glorified town,” Ralof chips in, leaning against a boulder.

Iora runs a hand over her face. “I suppose you both are going to insist on having me come with you both to Riverwood, then?”

The two men have enough presence of mind to look sheepish.

“Well, yes,” Hadvar starts. Ralof interrupts him.

“There are occupied bandit camps between here and both Falkreath and Riverwood, no matter what you decide. I think I speak for both Hadvar and myself when I say that I’d feel much better about it all if we could at least see you safely to Riverwood.” Hadvar nods in agreement. Iora sighs.

“Fine, I’ll go to Riverwood with you. I imagine you’ll want me to go on to inform the local lord of what happened, too, yes?”

“Local _jarl,_ ” Hadvar corrects her with a smile. “But yes, it would be best to inform Balgruuf of what happened here today as soon as possible.”

With that said, the three of them make their way down to the main road. Hadvar and Ralof walked on either side of her. She is quiet, cradling her hand against her chest as the two men escorting her banter back and forth. A hawk cries mournfully overhead. A branch snaps in the woods to their right. Hadvar stops midstep.

“Wolf,” Ralof whispers. He pauses, cocking his head. “Two wolves.”

As if speaking the name summons the creatures, two enormous wolves rush out of the underbrush, snarling at the humans. The sunlight catches on their fur as it ripples in the air, turning the russet strands a burnished red-gold. Ralof brings his warhammer down with a yell. One wolf is downed, spine cracked in two. The other helps once as Hadvar brings his shield up and smashes its nose inwards. Viscera explodes onto the earth, turning the dirt into a slush of blood and brain.

Iora clicks her tongue at the mess. Wolf eyes are excellent night-eye ingredients, and it seems a waste for them to be smashed into paste. But two are better than none and she kneels next to the corpse with the intact head, summoning her dagger to her hand and pops the wolf’s eyes cleanly out of the sockets. She looks up, feeling eyes on her back. Hadvar is staring at her, looking a bit green.

“Why do you _do_ that?”

“Why not?” She shrugs nonchalantly. “They are good in potions, and were not exactly common in Morrowind.”

“You put them in potions? To _drink?_ ” Hadvar looks terribly disgusted at the thought. A small smile curves Iora’s mouth, and she nods.

“Yes. One of their more beneficial effects is limited night vision, not unlike what the Khajiit and Bosmer have naturally.”

“Huh.” Hadvar is less green, now, and seems thoughtful. “I guess that would be useful…”

Iora nods again. “Yes, it really is, especially when exploring old ruins and caves.”

They walk in silence after that, before coming to a stop at the crest of a hill. Ralof holds a hand to his face, shielding his eyes from the noonday sun as he points across the lake to a mountaintop draped in mists like a lace curtain.

“That ruin over there is called Bleak Falls Barrow. Old Nordic tomb, from the days of the Dragon Priests. This one,” the blonde jerks his head at Hadvar, “used to think that the _draugr_ would crawl down the mountain at night and snatch us from our beds.”

Hadvar scowls at Ralof, cheeks tinted pink. “We were _children,_ Ralof. What else was I supposed to do but believe my uncle?”

Ralof just shrugs, an easy grin on his face.

“Dragon Priests? What are those?” Iora looks between the two men, head cocked to the side. It is the first she has ever heard of ‘dragon priests’.

“They were an order of Men who worshipped the dragons and did their bidding. There were eight in Skyrim, if I remember the right of it. Legend says that they became powerful _draugr_ to serve their scaly masters, even in death.” Hadvar shudders. “I’ve heard tell of one in Volskygge, a tomb between Solitude and Markarth, but that could just be a rumor.”

“Are _draugr_ like the liches of Cyrodiil, Quaestor?” Hadvar looks pensive at Iora’s question. He is silent as he thinks.

“Yes and no,” he finally says. “I can’t claim to know _how_ draugr are made, but I do know that liches were most often powerful sorcerers that wished to extend their lifespan unnaturally. _Draugr_ are more like undead servants, I think. They can range from weak enough to down with a well-placed arrow to ones that can Shout like the Tongues of old.”

“Wait, what are ‘tongues of old’? And what is so extraordinary about shouting?”

This time, Ralof answers her. “The Tongues were Nords, or maybe Atmorans, who could speak the dragon tongue. Not much is known about them now. A lot of Skyrim’s history has been lost.”

“Hm.” Iora picks her way over a fallen tree, tiptoeing across the length of the log. “So Tongues had the ability to speak as the dragons did. Was it magic?”

Ralof blinks and says, “No.”

Hadvar nods and says, “Yes.”

Iora stops and stares at them both. “Well, which is it? It can’t _not_ be magic; dragons are inherently magical creatures, so it follows that a Shout would be a form of magic, no?”

The two men look at each other as though the other has the answer. Neither speaks. Iora crosses her arms, wincing as she jostles her hand. A hawk circles above them to the southwest.

“... So nobody really knows what Shouting is, then?” The corners of Iora’s mouth turn down as the Nords shrug and nod. “That is… unfortunate. Maybe the College has some books on it.” She hops down from her perch, looking for all the world like some great brown bird.

“They will at least have historical texts on Skyrim’s history,” Hadvar consoles her. Iora’s lips curve into a half-smile.

“I hope that is true.”

The trio makes good time on the road, pausing at a triad of upright stones that remind Iora of the Doomstones of Cyrodiil. Hadvar explains their purpose and names them Guardian Stones, saying that they have stood across the wilds of Skyrim since before history was recorded. Iora is inexplicably drawn to the stone engraved with the portrait of a wizard mid-cast. Her fingers connect with it, and the carving begins to glow with a bright cerulean light. A beam of something — Light? Magic? Magical light? Iora cannot tell — shoots up into the sky, or maybe comes down from the heavens.

“I thought you might pick that one,” Ralof says after she steps back. Both he and Hadvar brush their hands over the carving of a warrior, and they both seem to stand straighter, taller, after doing so.

“Well, _of course_ she did. She _is_ a sorceress,” Hadvar gently teases him. Ralof takes the ribbing with a good-natured smile.

They continue onwards, now with Hadvar in the lead. His color is nearly completely restored, and Iora feels confident that he can go about without she or Ralof shadowing him. The air is fresh down by the river that flows into Lake Illinata. Birds chirp in the branches above the road, and occasionally Iora can spot deer and elk through the trees on the right-hand side of the road. In the calm spots of the river between the rapids, silvery scales of tiny fish catch the light of the sun’s rays.

Hadvar and Ralof are surprisingly patient when she stops to pluck the petals off of the wild mountain flowers on the side of the road. Iora names the more common uses for them as she goes, not really caring if her escorts pay her any mind. _Blue petals restore and fortify health. Red petals restore and fortify magicka pools. Purple restores energy and fortifies agility._

They stop briefly as the buildings that make up Riverwood come into view.

“It would not be safe for me to be seen in Hadvar’s presence,” Ralof explains after Iora asks why they have stopped. “I will wait for the sun to set, or even the moon to rise, before I make my way in.” Hadvar acknowledges this with a nod and turns towards the outskirts of Riverwood. The blonde Nord looks to Iora. “Tell Gerdur — that’s my sister — at the mill that I am alive and well, thanks to you. She will doubtless help you, if Alvor — Hadvar’s uncle — proves to be difficult. Even if he _is_ helpful, Gerdur will want to assist you.”

Iora’s smile is a timid thing and she sincerely thanks him, promising to deliver Ralof’s message to his sister and her family before moving to join Hadvar at the town’s edge.

She is not overly impressed by her first view of the village that claims the title of town. There is a single road leading towards what can only be Whiterun. Along either side of it is hut-homes, sturdily built but _small_. Hadvar, ignoring the curious looks of the other inhabitants, makes a beeline for the first building on the left where a heavily-muscled blonde Nord pounds away on an anvil.

“Uncle Alvor!” The man turns, wiping the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. His face lights up and he rushes to meet Hadvar, his hammer falling to the ground, forgotten.

“Hadvar! What are you doing here, boy? Why aren’t you with General --” The brunette shakes his head.

“Not here. We need to get inside.” He lowers his voice, looking around cautiously. His uncle nods once, then spots Iora.

“Who is this, then? You haven’t dishonored the girl, have you?”

Hadvar looks alarmed. “What? No! She saved my life, actually.”

Alvor accepts Hadvar’s words, but still looks suspicious. “All right, then. Come inside, and I’ll have Sigrid fix you something to eat. Then you can tell me why you look like you were on the business end of a mountain troll.”

“Actually, it was a bear,” Iora chimes in as she follows the two men into the house. She seems to be doing that a lot, lately.

Alvor raises an eyebrow. “A bear?”

“... and several Stormcloaks, and a dragon.” Iora finishes, collapsing in an undignified heap beside the hearth.

“A dragon?! She isn’t drunk, is she?” The question is directed at Hadvar, who shakes his head.

“No, it’s true, Uncle. A dragon has attacked Helgen. Burned the place to the ground. It was… horrific. Be glad you weren’t there.”

A woman comes up a staircase to the far left of the house as Hadvar speaks. “Hadvar! What do you mean, a dragon attacked Helgen?” The firelight catches on her face, illuminating the fine lines in her brow.

“Exactly that, Aunt Sigrid. A big, black scaly monster right out of the stories you read to me as a child.”

“A dragon, in Helgen? Then it could be here at any moment!” The woman looks at her husband, worry marring her face.

“Sigrid, if there really _is_ a dragon, wouldn’t it have attacked Riverwood by now?” Alvor’s words do much to calm his wife. Her expression smooths, but her eyes are still bright with fear.

“That’s just the thing, Uncle,” Hadvar cuts in. “The dragon flew over Helgen, set it aflame, and then flew off. It went in this direction, but we would know by now if it had stopped here or near here.”

“That much is true,” Iora drawls, standing from where she’d been sitting. Sigrid lets out a tiny gasp as she spots the Breton, and Alvor watches her with eyes like chips of ice. Iora bows to the two, her injured hand kept against her heart and the other held out from her side. “Iora Allegra of House Telvanni of Morrowind, at your service. Your nephew saved me from both being executed _and_ being burned alive in Helgen.”

“That’s not — You’re not —” Sigrid seems to be at a loss for words.

“Not a Dunmeri name? My mother’s father was an Imperial. He liked the name, and so when I was born, he gave it to me.” She gives a watery half-laugh, suddenly missing her home, her _father_. “My father is a Telvanni wizard. He raised me in Morrowind alongside my paternal cousins after my mother and my grandfather’s family was slaughtered by Justiciars of the Aldmeri Dominion.”

The mention of the Thalmor has even Hadvar’s hackles rising. It is clear to see, for Iora, that though this family may be loyal to the Empire (Mede’s Empire, not the Septim’s, not any longer), they still harbor a deep mistrust of the Altmer supremacists. This knowledge makes being so far from what is familiar slightly more bearable.

It is Sigrid, bless her heart, who speaks first after the long silence following Iora’s words. “I am sorry for your loss, Iora of Telvanni. Losing a family member to the Dominion is never easy. And I apologize if my words offended you. I was only surprised.”

Iora waves it off, giving Sigrid a genuine smile. “I am used to it.” Her smile fades, though, as she remembers exactly how and why she came to be in this tiny house in a tiny town. “I… the dragon. It flew off this way, like Hadvar said, but I cannot for the life of me figure out how _nobody_ saw it.”

Alvor speaks up, saying, “I _did_ hear Hilde yelling about seeing a dragon earlier.” He looks like he has just eaten a lemon in the admitting of it, even so.

Sigrid rests a hand on his shoulder. “No one believes that woman, anyhow, husband. No-one can blame you for not doing so now.”

Alvor seems bolstered by his wife’s assurances. He turns to Iora now. “I would ask of you one thing, Iora of Telvanni: go to the Jarl, and tell him of this danger. Have him send soldiers to protect his people.”

“I was already planning on doing that,” she quips sardonically before sobering. “But having a subject call for aid will add more credence to my news. I will do this, Alvor of Riverwood, and have men here to protect you by the end of the week.”

Something in the blacksmith’s bearing untenses, and he looks at the Breton with something — if not outright admiration — similar to respect. “Thank you,” he says.

Iora inclines her head. “It is no trouble, truly. I actually have business in Whiterun. I, uh, got injured in the escape from Helgen.” She gestures to the hand held close to her breast. I was hoping to see the priestess of Kynareth before I traveled on to my original destination.”

“And where might that be, friend?” Alvor raises his voice as Sigrid begins fussing over Iora, rummaging in the drawers of a wardrobe for something to splint the hand with.

“I was headed to the College of Winterhold, initially. That changed,” she grimaces as Sigrid tightly binds her ring and little fingers together, “That changed when General Marcus Tullius invoked _carnificum_ on those few crossing the Pale Pass into Skyrim.”

Hadvar winces and his aunt and uncle look at her with blank expressions at the Imperial term. Iora sighs and begins to explain, “ _Carnificum_ is essentially when a military or political leader says, ‘All of you are guilty, it does not matter if you are innocent, all people within a certain radius are sentenced to death.’”

Sigrid and Alvor look suitably unsettled.

“So, you’re saying that General Tullius sentenced innocent people to die?” Alvor’s voice is low and has a dangerous edge. Sigrid finishes tending to Iora’s injury, and sets bowls of stew and a plate of bread in front of both Hadvar and the Breton.

“Well, there were several Stormcloaks and a horse thief and your country’s hero, _Ulfric_ ,” Iora elaborates, dipping a chunk of bread in the broth. “I suppose to the general’s mind that so long as Ulfric and his men were captured and brought to Imperial justice it did not matter _who_ got caught in the crossfire.

“To be fair, a few lives in exchange for many is a logical trade,” she continues, chewing thoughtfully. “But I am still deeply unhappy that I was caught up in it. I was meant to be meeting with my cousin at the College. I hate being late.”

“At least rest here for the night,” Sigrid says, gently running a hand over Iora’s shoulder. “It is the least we can do for you for bringing Hadvar back home safe.”

“Thank you,” the Breton says, swallowing thickly. Clearing her throat, she also twists to look out the window, not forgetting the promise she made to Ralof. It is nearly sundown. “I think, after I finish this -- it is delicious, Sigrid, thank you -- I will go for a stroll and familiarize myself with the area. I have not been somewhere so _green_ in what seems a lifetime.” Sigrid flushes, pleased with the praise, and Alvor laughs.

“I would imagine that it’s a distinct change. Across the road is Lucan’s shop, and next to it is the inn. Orgnar is usually manning the bar at this hour, and they have excellent mead there.” He gives the information freely, but Iora cannot help but feel that she has not earned it. She thanks her hosts again (“It’s not a problem, dear, now _eat!_ ” Sigrid orders her), and finishes her food quietly.

When she steps outside, Hadvar follows Iora as far as the doorway. “Gerdur and her family live in the house at the end of the road between Lucan’s and the Sleeping Giant.”

“Thank you, Hadvar. Truly. Your family is very kind.” He waves her off with an eye-roll and a grin.

“Go speak with them, and maybe you’ll catch me at the inn when you’re done.”

“Yes, _da_.” Iora grins right back at the Nord and waves as she makes her way towards the home of Ralof’s sister.


	4. Before the Storm II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta’d as of Aug 09 2018

When Iora raps three times on the door, it is not the woman she expects who answers it, but Ralof himself. His eyebrows rise, and then he smiles broadly, ushering her into his sister’s home. 

“Gerdur,” he calls, “This is the woman I was telling you about. She saved my life and helped me escape Helgen after the dragon attacked.”

Iora has little time to become acquainted with the interior of the house before she is snatched up into a stranger’s strong arms. The woman — Gerdur, presumably — presses Iora tightly against her breast, whispering thanks and  _ crying _ . Iora is vaguely uncomfortable.  _ Why _ is this woman crying?

“Wife, let her go. The poor lass is pale as the snow.” At her husband’s words, Gerdur releases Iora just as suddenly as she’d embraced her, laughing wetly and apologizing. Iora stumbles backwards, colliding with Ralof (much to his amusement). He steadies her with a hand at her waist and at her shoulder, chuckling quietly.

“Thank you for bringing my brother home,” Gerdur is saying. “If you need anything, anything at all, just let us know. We will do our best to provide it.”

Iora, overwhelmed by the sudden offer of ‘anything at all’, stumbles over her words. “Just, uh, a friend would be, um, nice,” she stutters. 

Gerdur smiles brightly as Ralof laughs. “Of course. Can I get you anything to eat?”

“Oh! No, thank you, I already ate at Alvor’s.”

Gerdur nods, as though it was expected of her. Iora can’t help but wonder if she’s gotten herself into something bigger than she’d ever wanted before. “Good, good. Alvor and his family are good, if stubborn, people.”

Gerdur ushers Iora to sit on a rickety chair by the fire. She introduces her husband, “Hod,” and her son and his dog, “Frodnar and Stump.” Frodnar latches onto Iora with an intensity that only children can muster, blue eyes (so very like his mother’s and uncle’s) wide as he begs her for the story of the escape from Helgen. It does not take much cajoling from the boy to pull it out of her. Sometime during the recounting, Frodnar has managed to change into his sleeping clothes when she was not looking, and crawled into his bed with his mutt following. Stump sprawls over Frodnar’s feet.

When she is finished telling the tale, Hod hands her a mug of ale, saying something about it ‘warming her blood and bones’.

She had not realized that she was shivering.

Iora sips at the alcohol gratefully. Ralof sits beside her, legs stretched out as he nurses his own bottle. His sister tucks her son more securely under a heavy quilt. 

Once Frodnar has been put to sleep properly, both Gerdur and Hod motion for the two to join them on the other side of the house, at the table. When settled on the worn wood bench, Iora finds that she is very, very tired. The warmth of the fire and general dimness of the light has relaxed her, and the ale plays no small contribution to her state. She slumps against Ralof’s side.

“Now, then,” Gerdur says quietly, “you say that Ulfric got out?”

“Yes,” Ralof replies.

“But he  _ left _ you behind,” Hod cuts in, his growl like pebbles rubbing against each other. 

“Surely he didn’t  _ want _ to,” Gerdur placates. Ralof shakes his head.

“I was done for,” he mutters. “If he hadn’t left me, I would have called him a fool.

“If it weren’t for this tiny mageling,” Iora makes a annoyed sound at his words, “then I wouldn’t be here tonight. My guts were out of my skin, sister.”

Gerdur pales, and grasps her husband’s hand. “What? You didn’t say —“

“How could I say that in front of my nephew? ‘Oh, yes, by the by, I almost  _ died _ ’?”

“You weren’t almost dead,” Iora protests. “And your guts were most definitely  _ not _ outside of your skin.”

“They were a little bit,” Ralof counters. 

“No, they were  _ not _ .”

“Were so.”

“Were not.”

“Yes.”

“ _ No _ .”

“Enough!” Gerdur whisper-shouts. “It is plain enough to see that you saved his life, and let’s leave it at that. It’s bad enough when Frodnar get into it when Hod tried to put him to bed, let alone when two full-grown adults do. Talos, grant me patience.”

After that, conversation drops to a lull, with Ralof and Gerdur and Hod speaking in low tones about who-knows-what. Iora dozes, her head falling heavy on Ralof’s shoulder.  _ It is a nice shoulder, _ she thinks, blue eyes fluttering shut.  _ A good pillow. _

“Hey, wake up, Iora Allegra,” Ralof whispers in her ear. 

“‘m not asleep,” she mumbles, opening her eyes. Ralof gives her a soft grin, and she smiles in return. 

“Yes, you were,” he counters, flicking her on the nose. Iora frowns at him, but it is greatly exaggerated. She is too exhausted to be irritated with anyone, let alone this big Nord that treats her like a little sister. 

“No, I was not.” Iora sits up, as if to prove her point, but all it does is makes her dizzy. 

“You were drooling,” Ralof laughs.

“Nuh-uh. I don’t drool.” She wipes at her cheek surreptitiously, just to check. It is drier than the ashy wastes of Morrowind. “See? No drool.”

“Whatever you say, lass.”

“Where are you staying?” Gerdur’s voice brings Iora back into focus. “You will always have a place here if you ever need somewhere to rest your head.”

“Um, tonight I’m sleeping at Alvor and Sigrid’s house, and tomorrow I’m going to head to Whiterun. I am hoping to make it there before midday.” Gerdur nods. 

“That makes sense. Stop by here before you leave. I have some things I’d like to give you when you go.” The Nord waves off Iora’s protests, making it clear that she will not take ‘no, thank you’ for an answer.

The Breton concedes defeat, and bids her hosts farewell. Ralof sees her to the door, giving her a brief hug. The night air is chilly from a mountain breeze. Iora says goodbye to Ralof again before meandering her way towards Alvor and Sigrid’s house. 

Alvor is sitting by the forge when Iora returns, and he wordlessly lets her inside. The fire in the hearth has died down while she was at Gerdur’s. However, it still puts out a respectable amount of heat. The brawny man directs her down the stairs, where a cot has been made and set up for her between a crooked wardrobe and a small set of drawers. 

Sleep does not come easily to Iora, and when it does, it is full of images that go by her far too quickly to make any sense of them. Dreams of dragon fire and dying screams haunt her sleep. Iora wakes before first light. She feels more exhausted than the day before, if at all possible. 

Hadvar is stoking the fire in the hearth when she tiptoes up to the main floor. He smiles wanly at her as she leans against the bannister. There are bags underneath his eyes. 

“Didn’t sleep well?” She shakes her head in response. His voice is low and rough, and Iora wonders if he’s been crying. He certainly doesn’t  _ look _ like he’s had a good cry. Hadvar sighs and runs a hand over the coppery stubble on his chin. “Neither did I.”

“I dreamt of dragons,” Iora whispers. “Dragons and death. I don’t — I want to go home.”

“I imagine that you do. I’m certain that as soon as you tell Balgruuf about what happened at Helgen, you’ll be able to return to your family.”

“After I tell Balgruuf. Right.” Iora suddenly regrets agreeing to speak with the local lord —  _ Jarl _ , she corrects herself — the night before.

“If you leave at sunup you  _ should _ be able to make it to Whiterun by noon, barring any unforeseen circumstances,” Hadvar tells her. “Aunt Sigrid packed a bag for you while you were out last night.” He directs her attention to a well-worn leather knapsack with a steel buckle. 

“Oh.” Iora, to be quite fair, had expected only a wave and a pat on the head when she left for Whiterun that morning. 

“Did you expect to be sent off empty-handed? Nords repay those who help them.” He smiles to himself before standing and heading to the series of shelves that serve as Sigrid’s larder. Hadvar tosses a bright yellow apple to Iora, who ducks it. The fruit thumps first on the wall and then quietly down the stairs. It comes to a rest at the foot of the stairway, thoroughly bruised. The Breton quirks an eyebrow.

“I can’t catch flying objects, Quaestor. My dominant hand is no good, remember?” Hadvar looks thoroughly abashed. 

“I’m sorry, I forgot. How is your hand, Iora?” Iora shrugs.

“It has certainly been better, but I’m eager to get it fixed. I shouldn’t have punched the wall,” she laments. “I should have had better control of my emotions.”

“We were in a very stressful situation. It was only natural that emotions run high,” Hadvar says. Iora’s lips purse.

“Still, I need to better control them now. I am in a foreign country in the middle of a war. I can’t  _ afford  _ to lose control,” she replies. Iora pauses, then snorts out a wry laugh. “At least I used the physical, rather than the magical. Members of my father’s family have been known to melt their surroundings when having a fit of emotion.”

Hadvar’s brows rise. “Really? I thought the Telvanni were revered as masters of the arcane.”

“Oh, they are, but that doesn’t mean the young ones aren’t highly volatile when under the influence of extreme emotion.” Iora smiles fondly, remembering her cousin’s extreme reaction to being told ‘that under no circumstances, she was most certainly  _ not _ going to be sent to  _ Skyrim _ to learn how to direct her birthright’. Brelyna had been fifty years old at the time. Iora has been ten.

“Tell me of your family,” Hadvar requests. When Iora hesitates, suddenly remembering in full that this man  _ is _ a Quaestor of the Imperial Legion, and probably can and will report to General Tullius, Hadvar raises his right hand, saying, “I swear on the tombs of my ancestors, this is purely a personal interest. Tullius will heat nothing you tell me from my lips. I’d just like to get to know the woman who saved my life.”

The peoples of Tamriel revere their ancestors, but Iora has to remind herself that this man has not given her any indication of duplicity. “I… I appreciate that. What do you wish to know?”

He asks her about her childhood, about what it was like growing up in the great mushroom estates of the Telvanni. She an amusing anecdote from when she was younger and more stupid; hiding frogs in the robes of a distant cousin who’d snarled at her and called her a mixed-breed wretch. She’d gotten spanked for that, but afterwards her father had apologized and told her to use the cruel words as a shield against the world. ‘Make it part of your identity, and no-one will be able to hurt you with it.’ Sigrid wakes up sometime during the telling, and she sets a loaf of bread between the two. 

Dawn breaks in the sky, lazy sunbeams shining through the windows and illuminating dust motes like holy secrets. Iora gathers her things together, carefully wrapping her alchemy ingredients and slipping them into the knapsack. Sigrid gives her a hug goodbye, while Alvor and Hadvar stand off to the side, as they nod their farewells. 

Gerdur and Ralof are waiting for her at the mill, the latter in a cloak with the hood up. She greets them with a nod. Nobody says much; Ralof wishes her good journeys and warns her to keep at least one eye on the skies above. Gerdur hands her a pouch, telling Iora to wait before opening it.

“So that you don’t try and return it,” the older woman says with a gleam in her eye. Iora thanks her and then she is strolling down the road towards Whiterun.

Iora encounters little trouble, sneaking by a pair of enormous wolves just past the bridge spanning the river. Their howling sets her hair on end. After that, though, everything is quiet aside from the lilting birdsong that comes down from the trees. 

Everything is quiet, until she ‘rounds the bend by the meadery and the ground shakes like a volcano is erupting. 

A giant. In all her days, Iora had never thought to see one so close. But now, with one laying dead on the ground at her feet, she finds herself fascinated. One of the Nordic warriors that had been fighting the giant when she’d come upon them approaches Iora.

“You handle yourself well, for a mage.”

Iora frowns, squinting against the sun as she looks up to the woman. “Thank you, I think? I am sorry if I interrupted anything.”

The woman throws her head back and laughs. “Oh, I like you. I am Aela of Whiterun, Companion of Jorrvaskr. This is Farkas, one of the Hero-Twins,” she points out a massive man in wolf armor, “and this is Ria of Cyrodiil.” The other warrior, a Cyrodilic woman with an aristocratic nose smiles at Iora. Iora smiles back.

“I am Iora of Morrowind. It is an honor to meet the descendants of the Five Hundred Companions of Ysgramor.”

Aela raises a brow. “Morrowind, eh? Long way from home, then.”

Iora nods. “Yes. I need to see the priestess at the temple, and I have a message for your Jarl, from Riverwood. I should go.”

“Hold on now,” Aela says. “We’re headed that way ourselves. And you need to see Danica? We could escort you the rest of the way. Just let us collect payment from Severio, and then we can move out.”

Iora accepts the invitation hesitantly. She wonders if all Nords are like the ones she’s met.  _ Probably not _ , she thinks.  _ There are horrible people everywhere _ .

The three Companions turn out to be pleasant company, once they leave Pelagia Farm. Farkas is quiet, eyes sharp and alert as he watches their surroundings. The walls of Whiterun rise against the sun, and Aela tells Iora a bit about the history of the city, how it sprouted up around the legendary Skyforge of the Companions. Ria perks up when Iora asks her of Cyrodiil. 

“The last time I was there, it was… home, I guess. The Thalmor had left Bravil alone, for the most part. I miss Bravil,” she says softly. “Or, I miss the wine, at least. And it’s  _ so _ expensive to import. Skyrim doesn’t have any proper vinters.”

“I imagine grapes would be hard to grow in this climate,” Iora says as a chill wind blows her hair into her face. She brushes it out of the way, but the wind messes it right back. Scowling, she ties it into place with a lace pulled from her boot. “What of your family? What was it like growing up in Bravil?”

Ria begins to answer, but is interrupted when a guard clad in yellow and white armor stops them.

“Halt! City’s closed with the dragons about.” Iora’s heart sinks. If there is more than one dragon out and about in Skyrim…

“Fastarr, what’s the meaning of this? We live here, you fool.” The guard bristles, but then seems to recognize most in the group.

“Oh! Aela, Farkas. I’ll let you in, but who’s this stranger you’ve brought?”

“Does it really matter who she is? She needs to see Danica.”

“I’m afraid it does matter, Companion. Jarl’s orders were to keep any outsiders, well, out.” He seems genuinely remorseful. 

“She helped us fell the giant that was raiding Severio’s farm! How can you  _ not _ let her in?” Ria is quick to come to Iora’s aid, which Iora herself finds unsettling. The guard stands firm against the Imperial woman, shaking his head.

“I actually have business with the jarl, serah. I was at Helgen when the dragon attacked.” The two guards and the Companions all swivel their heads to gawk at her. Internally, she quails at the sudden attention. “Alvor and Gerdur of Riverwood call for the aid of your lord —  _ jarl _ . I was injured then, and need to see the priestess.”

“Oh. _ Oh _ . Alright, I’ll let you in. Go directly to Jarl Balgruuf.” The man pulls a key out of a pocket and unlocks the gates for the four. Aela and Farkas go in first, with Ria and Iora close on their heels. Once inside, Farkas looks at the Breton more closely.

“Helgen, huh? Explains why you look ready to run at the first sign of trouble.” His words cause Iora to stop midstep. Does she really look that much like a quivering rabbit? She squares her shoulders.

“I… yes. If I never see a dragon again, it will be too soon,” she quips. Farkas gives a startled laugh, grinning. 

“Can’t say that I blame you. A dragon… what I would give to face one in battle.” He gets a dreamy look on his face. Aela rolls her eyes and snaps her fingers by his ear.

“Enough lollygagging, ice-brain. Come on, we’ve earned our rest. Ria, would you take Iora to Balgruuf and then escort her to Danica?” The younger woman nods, and the older warriors leave take their leave, making a sharp left turn up a flight of stairs across from the blacksmith’s forge.

Both women are silent as Ria leads Iora through the bustling city center. Whiterun is pretty, Iora supposes, but she would still trade it for Tel Naga in a heartbeat. Ria finally speaks up, pointing out Jorrvaskr, which turns out to be a building with an upended boat as a roof. Iora mentions this, much to Ria’s amusement.    
“Don’t tell that to any of the Companions. They’re very proud of their history — and their boat,” she advises. 

“Are you speaking from experience?” Ria doesn’t answer, but looks sheepish. The two continue on, avoiding the man shouting in front of the statue of Tiber Septim. At the foot of the stairs leading to the home of Jarl Balgruuf, Iora turns to stare at the statue. 

“What’s wrong?” Ria stops about seven steps above Iora, looking at her with a small frown. Iora shakes herself.

“Nothing. It’s nothing. I just… He was a tyrant.” She gestures vaguely at the statue. Ria blinks at her. “Never mind. Forget I said anything. Let’s get to the jarl and then to the temple.” The Imperial woman looks like she might say something, but then she just shrugs and motions for Iora to follow. 

“Don’t be afraid of Irileth. She’s short-tempered, but a good womer. She respects those who stand up to her, but aren’t foolish,” Ria tells Iora. “Balgruuf is a good man, but I think he will soon have to choose a side in the civil war.” The woman pulls a face before continuing, “He sympathizes with the rebels, but the Empire brings trade and prosperity for his people.” They reach the doors of the keep, and a guardswoman opens them for the two women. 

Inside Dragonsreach, it is very warm, and Iora breathes out a sigh of relief. She had been colder than she had thought. 

A Dunmeri womer — Irileth, Iora surmises — in light armor steps forward as they make their way to the throne. “Balgruuf isn’t taking visitors — Ria? What are you doing here? And who’s this you’ve brought with you?”

Iora steps forward and begins to speak, “My name is Iora Allegra of Hous Telvanni. I have messages from both Alvor and Gerdur of Riverwood. They call for the aid of your jarl.”

Irileth raises an eyebrow. “And why would they do that?”

“Because I was at Helgen, and I saw the dragon! I just wanted to see your priestess of Kynareth because I was injured,” she holds up her bandaged hand, “and I agreed to bring this information to your lord because I was headed this way.”

“What’s this? Helgen, you say?” A golden Plainsman of a Nord enters the room. “Irileth, who is this?”

“A survivor of Helgen, my Jarl. She claims to have seen the dragon with her own two eyes.”

Impatient, Iora interrupts. “ _ Yes _ . Riverwood calls for your aid. They want guards, in case of a dragon attack.”

“Very well,” the golden man says. “Irileth, send a detachment of guardsmen and women to Riverwood. I’ll not have my people unprotected in my own hold.”

A slimy voice enters the fray. “My lord, the Jarl of Falkreath could view that as a provocation; he’ll think you’re joining Ulfric’s side, that you are planning to attack him.”

“Enough, Proventus,” Balgruuf sighs. “I’ll not leave my people alone to face dragonfire, damn what Siddgir thinks. There is at least one dragon back in Skyrim, and I want my people safe.”

The jarl seems to remember that Iora is still standing before his throne. “Oh, you may go. See to your injuries. Ask for Danica Pure-Spring at the temple.”

The Breton sketches a bow, takes three steps backwards, and then turns back the way she came. Ria follows close on her heels.

“Proventus Avenicci may be a good steward, but he’s a bureaucrat through and through. He doesn’t see what’s important — the people of Whiterun,” the warrior says as they exit Dragonsreach. “He makes my skin crawl.”

“Mmm.” Iora doesn’t feel like talking. The two women walk in silence down the many steps. At the bottom, the raving man is still standing before the statue of the man-god. “Who  _ is _ that man?”

“Oh, Heimskr? He’s harmless, I think. They let him run his mouth, and he stays by the shrine.” For the first time, Iora sees the small, nicely-kept shrine to Talos behind the man. It is well-hidden between two lavender bushes, and she hadn’t looked closely enough to spot it before. Unsure what else to say, Iora nods to Ria. The Companion leads her past the great dead Gildergreen and to the doors of the temple. 

“Danica should be in there, but if she isn’t, check at down at the market in front of the Bannered Mare. It was good to meet you, Iora. Stop by Jorrvaskr sometime.” With that having been said, Ria inclines her head and leaves the Breton on the steps of the temple.

The doors of the Temple of Kynareth are both elaborately carved and painted — and  _ heavy.  _ Iora uses her shoulder and hands to push it open. As it turns out, they are not actually heavy. There is a man in finely-made clothes leaning on the other side. He stumbles as Iora pushes it open.

“I beg your pardon!” He seems scandalized. 

_ Then beg, _ Iora thinks dourly. To his face, she apologizes. 

“I  _ told _ you not to use the door as a wall, Nazeem. Useless excuse of a man,” a Redguard woman mutters  _ sotto _ .

Not wanting to get into the middle of what seems to be a long-standing fight, Iora asks, “Is Danica here?”

“I am she,” a frazzled woman with salty grey hair says. “What do you seek, child of Kynareth?”

“I need healing, please. I was injured yesterday.” Danica leads Iora to a bench and asks her what the injury is. “I punched something I shouldn’t have.” 

“Ah. A brawler’s fracture, then. You did well binding your fingers together.” 

“I didn’t do that. A woman from Riverwood helped me.” Danica says nothing as she unwraps Sigrid’s handiwork. Iora watches the priestess work, and she relaxes as the warmth of healing magic washes over her hand. It soothes the Breton’s aching muscles.

The light in the temple is the oranges and yellows of sunset when Danica releases Iora’s hand.

“There,” she says with a smile. “Good as new. Don’t go punching anything else until you are taught the proper forms.” The priestess helps Iora stand. “The Companions offer training, for a modest fee. Perhaps you might join them for a lesson or two.”

Iora does not get a chance to respond. A grizzled guardsman bursts through the doors. His beard is singed. 

“The Jarl says to prepare cots, Danica! There’s a dragon at the western watchtower.”

**Author's Note:**

> Alok - rise, awake  
> ~*~*~  
> The Elder Scrolls & Skyrim (c) Bethesda Softworks  
> Iora Allegra Septima (c) dovahgriin


End file.
